Still calling
The red-tailed black cockatoo didn't show.
Hours of driving. A cold night.
Scanning treelines. Listening between calls.
Every branch a false start.
The frustration was honest.
I'd earned the right to it.
But the sky at dusk was real.
Every other bird still calling.
The distance from everything ordinary.
The bird wasn't the weekend.
It was just the reason I went.
I drove hours into the bush for a red-tailed black cockatoo that didn't show. Every other bird was still calling.
